by Sam Christer
Mitzi watches him walk out of her line of sight. ‘Like I said, release Amber and I won’t leave you in any doubt about whether what’s in my guts is what you want, or just a blank stick.’
‘Clever,’ he shouts. ‘It buys you a little more time because you know I have to check it and therefore I won’t just slice you open.’ She hears him running water, then he appears with a mug and passes it to the brunette. ‘Hold this until I’m ready.’ He pulls open a box of tablets, tosses the cardboard and pops out all the pills from the two metal foils. His eyes light up as he looks at Mitzi. ‘This is going to be messy.’ He grabs her hair and pulls her head back. ‘Open your mouth.’
She keeps it closed.
He chops his fist on her broken nose.
Mitzi screams in pain.
Marchetti forces the laxatives through her teeth and keeps her head tilted back. ‘Water!’
The brunette pours the contents of the mug into her mouth. Mitzi gags. Tries to spit the tablets out.
Marchetti holds his hand over her mouth until she swallows. Mitzi hangs her head forward and wheezes for breath. Marchetti yanks her head back again and forces another handful of tablets over her tongue. This time she doesn’t have the air or willpower to fight. As soon as the water hits her lips, she starts to swallow.
He wipes his wet hand on her and walks away. As he reaches the door, he calls back to his minions. ‘Put her in the closet so she doesn’t make too much mess.’
144
LONDON
The laptop on George Dalton’s knees shows video feeds from the helmet cameras of the armed response units on the barge on the Thames.
The big old slug of a boat has crawled up to the quayside and moored below the approach to the select development where Mitzi Fallon is being held.
‘Tac response is ready.’ He turns to Owain: ‘We’re getting parabolic microphones trained on the building, we should have audio any minute.’
‘Good. Keep the men on standby,’ says Owain. ‘We have to maximize the chance of getting to the girls before they go in.’ He calls Madoc to catch up on developments across the Atlantic.
‘Gareth, can you speak?’
‘Not for long.’
‘How are we doing on finding the Fallon kids?’
‘Ross Green and Eve Garrett have identified some suspects. They’re pro teams that Marchetti or Mardrid are indirectly linked to. We need time to get a fix on where they are right now.’
‘Time is the one thing we don’t have.’
‘I know. I’ve got six tac teams out in the Bay area, spread both sides of the water, but it’s a big space. To be honest, without top-notch intel on faces and places, we’re going to draw a blank.’
Owain has already contemplated that bleak outcome. ‘If it goes badly, Gareth, I don’t want these animals leaving California in anything but a box.’
‘Understood. Is there anything else?’
‘There is. I’ve decided we can’t let al-Shibh and his followers run until the morning.’
Madoc winces. ‘We have a really good chance of identifying all the key members of this reconstructed cell.’
‘I realize that, but without knowing who their target is, let alone the location and time of the attack, it’s a risk we can’t afford to take.’
‘I just need a little more time. Let it run until al-Shibh takes us to wherever he’s going to lay his head tonight.’
Owain stands firm. ‘We can’t. I’m sorry.’
Madoc blows out a long sigh but doesn’t argue. ‘Okay. How do you want to play it? You going to call Ron Briers at the NIA?’
He wants to soften the disappointment to him. ‘Do you have someone on your “Tried and Trusted” list who you’d like to give a boost to?’
‘Yes, I do. Several people.’
‘Then you call it in. Always good to help those on the way up.’
‘Thanks, I appreciate that.’
‘No need. Just make that call to your guy and make it soon.’
‘Will do.’
Owain turns off the phone.
‘We’ve got sound,’ says Dalton. ‘It’s muffled but I can hear Fallon. She sounds in a bad way.’
145
LONDON
The brunette spreads newspaper on the floor of the built-in closet. Her muscled friend strips Mitzi waist down, throws her into the space and shuts the sliding doors.
Being treated like a dog hurts almost as much as her busted nose and wounded shoulder. Gradually comes the added grief of extreme stomach cramps caused by the pills. Mitzi suffers in silence for as long as she can, then shouts through the blackness, ‘You guys best get me to a john. And quick.’
There’s a bang on the doors and the muscle shouts back, ‘You just do your mess in there, little doggie, and hurry the fuck up.’ He gives the wood a kick as he steps away.
Mitzi feels lower than low. Time is running out. She shifts sides to try to release the growing cramps. In the blackness she remembers the words of the strange old man at Caergwyn Castle. In her weakest moments she’s capable of the most amazing things.
Pain drains from her wounds and stomach. The thumping in her head stops. She’s able to distance herself from the torture, slip through an imaginary trapdoor and hide away and grow strong.
Mitzi pictures her babies. Remembers them being handed to her in the hospital bed. The soft touch of their faces. The wonder of kissing their cheeks for the first time. The surge of protective, maternal love. A love so strong she’d kill if she had to.
The closet doors slide open. She blinks as light floods her space.
The brunette puts her hand to her mouth and looks like she’s going to be sick. ‘Oh my God, what a fucking mess.’
Mitzi feels no shame. No embarrassment. Whatever happens next, she won’t give in. Won’t give up. Won’t let her girls down.
146
NEW YORK
Joe Steffani of the NIA recognizes the incoming number on his desk phone and picks up straight away. ‘Let me guess,’ he says in his Bronx accent, ‘you’re calling to keep me from my kids and you’re gonna ruin my evening?’
‘Ruin it or make it?’ says Gareth Madoc. ‘Depends how you interpret the news I’m about to give you.’
‘Ha freakin’ ha. So, what exactly have you got for me, my strangely well-informed foreign friend?’
‘Ali bin al-Shibh.’
‘Shut the fuck up.’
‘Seriously. He is here in New York.’
Joe feels his stomach flip. ‘You sure of this? You got eyes on him or something?’
‘Eyes and ears. We’re so close we could floss his pearly whites.’
The NIA man grows suspicious. ‘Why?’
‘Why doesn’t matter. He just recorded a video message in the home of a senior mosque figure; now he’s in a car with a couple of bodyguards heading to JFK. Once he’s there, I guess he’ll go to a private hangar and vanish.’
‘Motherfucker.’ He pulls his jacket off the back of his chair. ‘You got hook-ups for me?’
‘Will have by the time you’ve called a team together. You’ll need other units too. At least four. We’ve got tails on the cell’s bomber, commander and associates.’
‘Jeez! You and your cowboys have been keeping things from us, Gareth. Naughty, naughty.’
‘I consider myself told off. Once you’re up and running we need to talk face-to-face.’
‘You bet your ass we do.’
Madoc hangs up. A screen on his desk shows Zachra Korshidi re-entering the place she calls home. He hopes to God that when everything starts happening he can get her out of there, alive.
147
FBI HQ, SAN FRANCISCO
CARDT psychologist Helena Banks opens the door of her boss’s office. ‘You got a minute?’
‘That’s all I’ve got.’ Bob Beam waves to a chair. ‘I just heard from Spinks. He struck out in Walnut Creek. The single guy who hired the big shack came up kosher. Turns out he’d split from his wife but still
went to the cabin he’d rented for her and their three kids. He’d figured he’d paid for it so he might as well use it.’
‘Should have sub-let it,’ says Helena. ‘He’ll need all the dough he can get for maintenance. I’ve been thinking about vehicles.’
‘Go on.’
‘We talked again to Ruth Everett and she said she saw a sedan at the bottom of her drive. It was part of why she bought into the woman’s story about being alone and broken down.’
‘We went through this.’ He pulls a file from a tray stack on his desk. ‘Only two dozen single women renting sedans in the last week and they all paid by credit cards.’
‘I know. But I had research run rentals again and guess what, we have a guy who rented an RV at San Fran International and also a sedan in San Mateo.’
Beam feels his heart jump. ‘You got a name and address?’
She puts a yellow Stick-It on his desk. ‘Chris Wilkins, married man, has a business in LA.’
He peels off the paper. ‘Name and address check out?’
‘Yep. He exists. So does his business. House isn’t his though – it’s rented and the company is a mom-and-pop affair on an industrial estate. Type you could walk away from in a blink.’
‘Record?’
‘None.’
‘Wife?’
‘Teresa. Tess.’
‘You got a picture of him or his lady?’
‘Not yet. We’re pulling some from licensing and Homeland Security.’
‘Rap sheets?’
‘None. Not so much as a write-up for speeding.’
Beam goes back to the root of what he guesses sparked her interest. ‘Why would someone hire a sedan and an RV?’
‘Unusual but not unheard of,’ answers Helena. ‘RVs are good accommodation but only crawl and are hell to park. Sedans get you around faster and more comfortably. What’s strange, though, is that they have no kids, so you’d think motels or hotels would be more to their liking. On top of that, Wilkins rented them both separately and from different firms. It’s not the kind of thing most people do. Folks want to strike a deal, get a two-vehicle discount.’
‘Maybe the sedan was an afterthought and perhaps the wife can’t drive?’
Helena gives a knowing smile. ‘Oh but she can.’
‘She can?’
‘Both the RV and sedan went over the Oakland Bay Bridge around ten p.m., which is about the same time Ruth Everett was regaining consciousness on the floor of her kitchen.’
148
LONDON
The covert cab parks in the dark adjacent to the SSOA barge and less than five hundred metres from the development block where Mitzi is held.
Owain Gwyn’s cell phone rings. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s done.’ Gareth Madoc sounds deflated. ‘I’ve told my NIA contact and he’s on his way over here. He already has a team meeting with Lanza and they’re circling al-Shibh as we speak. I guess before dawn all our targets will be closed down, though I suspect it’ll be tough to stick them with charges.’
‘Don’t be depressed. We had to choose between trying to catch everyone red-handed or ensuring no one gets hurt.’
‘I know. I just wanted this to be one of those times we managed both.’
‘We saved lives. Hang on to that.’
‘I will. My guy’s here, so I’ve got to go. Before you ask, I’ve nothing new on the Fallon girls but I promise I’ll call you the instant I have.’
‘Thanks. Let’s talk later.’ Owain hangs up and turns to Dalton.
The consul updates him. ‘We’ve got a two-man team on the roof. They’ve heat-scanned the surface and she’s being held in a top-floor room on the western side.’
Owain casts his eyes up into the darkness. ‘Are you thinking of going in from the roof?’
‘Not unless we have to. I want to get a listening device on the window; the feed from the parabolic microphones isn’t as good as I hoped. We’re going to lower an invisible camera as well, a fibre optic one that won’t be seen in this light.’
‘Do we know what Marchetti is doing?’
Dalton covers his earpiece and listens. ‘I don’t think he’s in the room at the moment. I’ve picked up three voices. Fallon’s, a woman’s and a man’s.’
The ambassador glances at his watch. ‘I’m going to have to leave you. The Vatican hasn’t returned my messages and even when they do, I’m sure I know what the answer will be.’
‘They’re not going to call off tomorrow.’
‘No, of course not, it’s too late. Which means I have to get to Cardigan and re-examine the security.’
‘I’m fine here, don’t worry.’ He taps the computer monitor. ‘We’ve got all our best men on this job; we’ll get Fallon out safely.’
‘I know you will.’ Owain leaves his seat and opens the cab door. His private car is just a few hundred yards away. ‘Try not to kill Marchetti. I really want some quality time with our old friend.’
149
LONDON
Beneath the pitch-black sky Angelo Marchetti stares out at the bright lights of the city. In front of him lies the watery vista of the Thames Barrier and to his right the glass-and-steel forest of Canary Wharf.
When the penthouse he’s in is completed, Mardrid will sell it for millions, no doubt to some rich Russian or Arab. Right now, the whole development is nothing more than bare floors, walls and ceilings.
In his jacket pocket is a rolled up cloth that contains a hypodermic, some clean needles and enough heroin and cocaine to keep any decent rock band high for a month. The temptation to shoot it all into a big juicy vein is almost irresistible.
On a wad of paper towels is the memory stick his team just recovered from the Californian cop.
She’s been lying to him.
The stick isn’t his. It’s smaller, thinner, lighter and empty.
The question now is what to do with her.
Fortunately, Mardrid is not yet on his back. But within a day or two, he will be. And Marchetti knows that if he can’t deliver the details of the knights’ graves, then he might as well dig his own.
He grabs the wad and useless file and strolls into the other room.
As per his orders, the woman’s out of the closet, cleaned up and sat down.
Marchetti grabs another fold-up metal chair and settles opposite her. He holds the memory stick in front of her red and battered eyes.
‘Where’s the real one?’
Mitzi focuses on her girls. Imagines them running to her as toddlers, sweeping them off their feet, holding them tight.
Marchetti shouts this time. ‘Where – the – fuck – is – it?’
She finds just enough saliva for her lips to work. ‘Get Amber to a hospital and I’ll tell you.’
He shakes his head in amazement. After everything he’s done to her, how can she not be broken? What more has to happen for her to simply give in?
He knows the answer. She won’t. He’s seen people like her before: iron-willed, unflinching. Not so very long ago he had been such a person.
Through the window opposite, the sky starts to lighten. He knows dawn will come within the hour and with it intensified efforts in the US to find the girls.
‘All right.’ He sounds exasperated. ‘I’ll release one of your little bitches. I’ll fix it. But I promise you this.’ He steps closer, his eyes wide with rage. ‘If you fuck with me – if you don’t instantly give me what I want, then I will make you watch your other daughter die and it will not be a merciful death. It will be a slow and painful scream-for-mommy death, worse than anything you have ever seen or imagined.’
150
CALIFORNIA
Chris Wilkins honks his car horn as he approaches the hideout, knowing that forgetting to do so could result in a face full of lead.
Tess opens up. A Glock 29 dangles from her right hand; an assault rifle is only a grab away. From his face, she knows something is eating him. ‘Everything okay?’
He takes one long look at the
girls. They’re still bound, gagged and hooded but are now separated. One is sat in a chair, her feet tied to the legs and her hands to the back. The other – the injured one – is on the floor, her legs raised and hand bandaged.
‘In the back.’ He nods to the kitchen.
Tess bolts the door and follows him into the adjoining room.
He lets out an anguished sigh. ‘He wants us to free one of the girls.’
‘He what?’
‘The cut one. Says we have to take her to a hospital as far away as possible and leave her there with instructions to call her mom’s cell phone straight away.’
She shrugs. ‘We can get her to call from anywhere. It doesn’t have to be a hospital.’
‘I didn’t tell it right. She has to call from the hospital, so her mother can check she’s there.’
‘Okay. I get it. Smart bitch.’
‘Where’s the best medical centre?’
Tess shrugs. ‘No real idea. I’ll look online. There’ll probably be ones at Oakland and San Ramon.’
‘Have a look east. Find something as far away from here as I could make in an hour.’ He nods at the girl. ‘How is she?’
‘No real trouble. Bled like a haemophiliac after you cut her fingertip off with that carver and she’s been whimpering like a kitten ever since.’
He goes to the fridge and pulls a beer. ‘You want one?’
She takes a bottle and pops the cap. ‘I don’t like this. Don’t like it one bit. You let the other side call the shots and it leads to trouble. Especially if the other side’s a Fed.’
151
FBI HQ, SAN FRANCISCO
Sandra Donovan makes sure the door to her office is shut. It’s a precaution she always takes when she’s about to receive a call as important as the one being put through.
